The castle's great hall was drowned in silence. The prisoners—mercenaries captured in the stables' fire—knelt before the assembled council, their hands bound, their faces bruised yet defiant. Torches hissed in their sconces, shadows crawling across the stone walls like hungry specters.
Emma stood slightly behind Franck, her gaze sharp, unyielding. Every detail of this hearing mattered. Proof had finally taken form, and tonight it would either expose the traitors—or be smothered beneath layers of deception.
Franck's voice cut through the chamber like steel on stone.
"Speak," he commanded. "Who paid you to set fire to my walls? Who sent you into my home with blades drawn?"
The leader of the mercenaries, a scarred man with a sneer carved into his face, spat onto the floor.
"We're sellswords. We don't answer to crowns or courts. We answer to gold. And your enemies have plenty to offer."
A ripple of murmurs spread among the nobles. Franck's jaw clenched, but Emma stepped forward, her voice carrying with deliberate calm.
"Gold leaves a trail," she said. She motioned to the chest carried in by two guards. With a flourish, the lid was thrown open. Inside gleamed coins—freshly minted, stamped with the sigil of Lady Veyra's province.
Gasps echoed. Lady Veyra, resplendent in her crimson gown, did not flinch. She raised one delicate brow, her smirk cold.
"A convenient accusation," she said smoothly. "But coins travel far, Lady Emma. A sigil is not a signature. For all we know, you placed them there."
The chamber stilled. Emma met her eyes without faltering. "If I wished to fabricate evidence, Lady Veyra, I would hardly choose your sigil so boldly. You hide behind ambiguity, but smoke cannot conceal fire forever."
Veyra's lips curled, but she said no more. The council erupted into debate, voices clashing like swords.
---
That night, after the council dispersed without resolution, Franck paced his study in restless strides. Maps lay abandoned on the desk, wine untouched in the goblet by the hearth. Emma leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the storm unravel in his expression.
"They'll bury this in politics," Franck muttered. "Even with proof in hand, they'll twist the truth until it chokes itself. I should drag Veyra to the dungeons myself."
Emma shook her head. "Do that, and you give her allies their excuse. She thrives on pushing you into rashness. We need more than proof—we need undeniable exposure."
He stopped, turning toward her. His eyes softened briefly. "You've stood beside me in every storm. But this storm… it cuts deeper. If I fall, it won't just be my crown—it will be your life as well."
Emma pushed away from the wall, stepping closer. "Then we make sure you don't fall. You once told me my voice lightens the weight of ashes. Let me also be your blade in the dark."
Franck studied her, the firelight etching gold into his features. Slowly, he nodded. "Then we fight in the shadows."
---
The following days unfurled like a coil of hidden steel. Emma set herself to weaving a net, subtle yet unbreakable. She spoke with servants, lingered in corridors, listened to whispers. From the kitchens came murmurs of secret deliveries at night; from the stables, rumors of cloaked figures vanishing into the forest.
One evening, cloaked in gray, she followed a trail herself. The castle's outer wall loomed above her as she crouched near a postern gate seldom used. There—a flicker of movement. Two men passed a sack of coin into the hands of a cloaked woman.
Emma's heart raced. She could not see her face, but the woman's voice was sharp, imperious.
"Tell your mistress the next strike will bleed him. The west distracted him, the stables weakened him. Soon, the dagger reaches the throat."
The men bowed and melted into the dark. The woman turned, her hood falling just enough for moonlight to kiss her profile.
Lady Veyra.
Emma bit her lip to keep from gasping. Proof no longer hid in coins or whispers—it lived in the air itself.
She turned to retreat, but a blade pressed cold against her throat.
"Well, well," a low voice murmured in her ear. "The little dove strays too far from her cage."
Emma froze. A mercenary's arm pinned her, his knife gleaming. Another stepped from the shadows.
"Shall we gut her now, or save her for the mistress?" the second sneered.
Emma's pulse thundered. Her mind raced. She could not fight two armed men with brute strength, but she had something sharper—her wits.
"You think killing me will silence the truth?" she said, her tone steady though her heart quaked. "Every step you take leaves a trail. The moment I don't return, Franck will scour the earth until nothing remains of your mistress."
The knife hesitated against her skin. The mercenaries exchanged glances. Fear of Franck's wrath outweighed their orders—for now.
"Bind her," the first growled. "The lady will decide."
Rough hands tied her wrists, but Emma did not resist. Fear, after all, was a mask she could wield. As they dragged her into the woods, she silently marked the path. If she survived, she would lead Franck straight into the vipers' nest.
---
Back in the castle, Franck paced like a caged beast. Emma had not returned by dawn. Every nerve screamed at him. When a scout burst into the hall with news of tracks leading west into the forest, Franck did not wait for council or strategy.
"Arm the riders," he commanded. His eyes burned with a fury that silenced protest. "We ride now."
---
Emma was thrown into a damp cellar, the air reeking of mold and rust. Shackles clamped her wrists, the cold seeping into her bones. Across the chamber, torches sputtered, and Lady Veyra descended the stairs, her gown trailing like blood upon the stone.
"Ah, the dove herself," Veyra purred. "You've flown far, only to land in my hands. Tell me, Emma, what drives you? Loyalty? Ambition? Or is it simply the thrill of playing queen beside a man who will never crown you?"
Emma met her gaze without flinching. "What drives me, Lady Veyra, is truth. And truth will burn you, no matter how deep you bury it."
Veyra's smile was venom. "Then let us see if truth still burns after I cut it from your tongue."
She motioned, and a mercenary stepped forward, dagger gleaming.
Emma's heart thundered—but in the distance, faint yet growing, she heard it: hooves pounding against the earth.
Franck had come.
---
The cellar door exploded inward. Knights stormed through, steel flashing, their cries echoing against stone. Franck himself led the charge, his blade cutting down the first mercenary before he could strike Emma.
Chaos erupted. Mercenaries scrambled, blades clashing, torches falling. Lady Veyra shrieked, retreating toward a hidden passage, but Franck's gaze locked on her.
"Coward," he growled, advancing.
Emma strained against her shackles, shouting, "Franck! The keys—on the table!"
A knight rushed, seizing them, unlocking her bonds. Pain seared her wrists, but Emma snatched a fallen torch and hurled it at the passage entrance. Flames roared, blocking Veyra's escape.
Trapped, she hissed like a cornered serpent. "You think this ends me? You are blind, Franck. You are already surrounded by shadows you cannot see."
Franck's sword lifted, but Emma laid a hand on his arm. "No. Not yet. Let her words damn her before the council. Killing her now makes her a martyr. Alive, she is proof."
Franck's chest heaved, but he lowered his blade. Veyra was dragged away in chains, her curses echoing like poison through the halls.
Emma, bruised and exhausted, met Franck's gaze. Relief and fury warred in his eyes.
"You risked everything," he whispered hoarsely.
"I trusted you would come," she said simply.
For the first time, Franck's hand lifted, brushing against her cheek—not as a prince to a subject, but as a man to a woman who had fought at his side in fire and shadow.
"You are no dove, Emma," he murmured. "You are the blade in the dark."
And in the silence that followed, Emma knew: their war had only begun, but together, they would carve light through the night.